


Any Other Night – 8/9 – On Living

by motsureru



Series: Any Other Night [8]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-03
Updated: 2007-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 16:44:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Broken Glass, a Sylar/Mohinder-centric continuation after Season 1.  Spoilers for Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Other Night – 8/9 – On Living

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [hugh](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) for beta work~ ****

**Teaser:** _“You like this persona. I’ve seen it.”_

  


.8 On Living

            They had fallen asleep curled up comfortably in the only manner in which they might fit into the twin bed: with Mohinder on his side as usual, and Sylar turned to spoon his body and capture Mohinder within his arms. With all the excitement and emotional drain of the evening, falling asleep had been difficult, but Sylar, waiting for Mohinder’s body to relax, was able to do so himself by lulling away consciousness with that steady rhythm.

**BEEP BEEP BEEP.**

  
That is, until the alarm went off at 7:30A.M. in preparation for traveling- something that was an unlikely event at this point.

            Sylar was the first one to give a sudden jolt, groaning loudly at the noise stabbing painfully into his oversensitive eardrums. He turned onto his back sharply, nearly falling off of the small bed, and pressed a palm to the closer ear, struggling to think straight enough to pull his other arm from beneath Mohinder. Sylar’s startle gave Mohinder his own shock, and rolling his body over, Mohinder squinted blearily at the frazzled man curling into himself from the pain.

            “I gottit…” Mohinder whispered, voice gruff from sleep. He turned over again, half-crawling up Sylar’s chest to reach across his opposite shoulder for the alarm. Several fumbling slaps later, the high-pitched squeal came to a stop. Mohinder gave a fatigued sigh, flopping back down. “It’s off, it’s off…” he mumbled rather incoherently. Mohinder rest against Sylar’s chest, cheek to his skin, and left his extended arm stretched atop the man’s chest and shoulder. Closing his eyes, Mohinder immediately began to drift off again; this morning, his exhaustion knew no beeps or bounds.

            Sylar rubbed the sand from his eyes, peering down at the figure now effectively curled up against him. He smiled wearily at the unexpected pleasure he took in Mohinder’s sleepy face pressed against his body. Reaching to pull the covers up closer over Mohinder’s dark shoulders, Sylar closed his eyes again and quite easily slipped back into the realm of sleep.

            For a man who saw the seduction and mystique in murder, Sylar had never given himself much stock as a romantic. Even the morning before, when he had awoken with Mohinder at his side, those few moments of tender touches and indulgent embraces had never willfully crossed his mind as more meaningful than they appeared. He hadn’t let them. 

            As always seemed to be the case with his relationship- relationship?- with Mohinder, Sylar woke feeling that something was different. This time it was not that there were awkward silences or tense feelings. It was not that Mohinder was gone, leaving him to his own devices. This time, the difference was that Mohinder was still there, holding onto Sylar, and seemingly perfectly at ease with that fact.

            The clock read nearly eleven. Sylar couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in; he simply couldn’t, after years and years of making himself breakfast in the morning, sitting down calmly to read the newspaper over a cup of tea, and opening the shop at precisely 8:00A.M. 

            But today was different. Today was special. Today, Sylar got to touch those dark curls, feel the tickle of breath against his chest, and know what it was to feel no pretence behind any of it. Stroking Mohinder’s hair as he slept, Sylar thought of the night before, considered all the words he and Mohinder had exchanged. 

            ‘Did I break you, Mohinder?’ he had asked at the beginning of this trip.

            Mohinder had replied ‘no,’ but Sylar knew better. He had damaged this man, he knew. 

But Mohinder’s parts were not replaceable; Sylar would have to give him his own to make him work again like he worked before. That was the sacrifice. The humanity that Sylar originally thought he lacked he had to give. The humanity he stole from Mohinder, he had to return. That seemed strangely less terrifying to Sylar when he woke up like this, with Mohinder in his arms, rather than when he had faced the events of the night before in fear.

            Mohinder began to stir from Sylar’s light touches. Sylar watched the play of consciousness slowly dawn on his features. He took in the faint twitches of eyes that gradually opened, catching the slivers of morning light that snuck through curtains. Sylar had watched Mohinder before; he’d stared at him and absorbed him and wondered what made him do this or make an expression like that. But Sylar felt now as if he’d never really _seen_ Mohinder. 

            When he looked at Mohinder, he saw perfection dance before his eyes in the shape of light playing off the bends of curls and flickering in the edges of dark eyes. He saw the first thing he had ever truly valued besides power after the untimely death of Gabriel Gray.

            The darker man retreated slowly, lifting his head a little and looking at the clock before turning his half-lidded gaze to Sylar. Mohinder plopped his chin down against Sylar’s chest and let out a tired sigh. “Should have left hours ago…” he mumbled, though there was no real enthusiasm or conviction behind those words.

            Sylar smiled and shook his head. “We’re taking a day off. Forget the time. That house isn’t going anywhere.” He sifted his fingers through Mohinder’s curls again, just watching him. Enjoying that little smile that found its way onto the man’s face.

            “You’re right… Though we have to get out of bed some time.” Mohinder rolled onto his side, giving a light stretch. 

            “No we don’t,” Sylar replied. Though he meant it innocently, it secretly amused him how that statement could be misconstrued. 

            Mohinder sat up fully, ruffling his hair. “Well maybe you don’t-” he winced when he touched the very back of his head. “-but I can’t start the day without a shower. I’ll be in a terrible mood if I sleep any longer.”

            Sylar frowned at that twitch and pushed himself up on a palm, reaching over to touch Mohinder’s black hair. “Are you…” Of course. He swallowed. This was his fault. He’d thrown Mohinder around recklessly the night before, hurt him when he’d tossed him to the wall in fury. “I… about last night.” –came the uneasy and unprepared statement.

            Glancing back at the man, Mohinder gave a faint smile. “It’s alright. You were angry.”

            “No, it’s not alright.” Sylar insisted, feeling a hint of docile Gabriel sneaking into his words. “I didn’t- …I… was angry. I wasn’t thinking clearly. I won’t do it again, Mohinder. I don’t want you to fear me.” Flashes of his mother’s face recoiling in terror came to mind, and Sylar, too, winced.

            A small laugh came from Mohinder’s lips, accompanied by the gentle shaking of his shoulders. “I think I’ve learned well enough by now when and when not to fear you.” He reached a hand back and gave a small pat-pat on Sylar’s cheek. “Besides. I know how best to punish you if you’re mean to me.”

            “…” It didn’t click right away, so Sylar sat there computing the possibilities in his head while Mohinder slipped out from under the covers. When it finally came to him, he raised an eyebrow. “…Tuning fork torture?”

            A sneaky expression crossed Mohinder’s face, but he said nothing as he headed to the bathroom.

            Sylar thought back to that time and found himself grinning a little. There was that fiery side to Mohinder- the one that strapped him down and drugged him, the side that pushed Sylar back when he gave the first shove- Sylar loved seeing it. That part of the man’s personality gave him a challenge. But he wondered if anyone else had ever brought that out in Mohinder before. A brief surge of jealousy passed through Sylar. It was obvious enough that Mohinder had had other people in his life, in his bed, before. Were they men? Women? Had he shared himself as intimately as he did now?

            For all that Sylar knew about Mohinder from his experiences, from Chandra, the most important things to him at the moment were questions he didn’t have answers to. Pulling back the covers and slipping out of bed, Sylar listened as the shower turned on, and waited a moment. When he heard Mohinder get inside, he finally followed, opening the bathroom door.

            “I’m not going to look!” Sylar called out over the sound of rushing water. He stepped onto the tile, watching the disjointed body parts that peeked over white shower curtains and the faint outline of Mohinder’s dark figure. He turned to the sink.

            “As long as you don’t flush,” Mohinder replied. He listened, too, wondering just what Sylar was doing on the other side of that curtain. He reached for the shampoo and continued none the less.

            Turning over in his mind the way to best pose his curiosities, Sylar began to rummage through Mohinder’s small bag of bathroom items, searching. “Can I ask you something?” he asked towards the curtain. Ah- There it was. A razor.

            “…” Mohinder hesitated for a second, wondering where this was going to lead. “Yes?”

            “Have you ever… I mean…” Sylar frowned. He wondered why he never asked this before, since they’d already slept together. But the sexual tension between them had seemed like a given. At first, he’d never bothered with questions like ‘Are you gay?’ or ‘Are you even somewhat interested in men?’ They were irrelevant questions at the time; the two of them wanted each other, and that much seemed evident. Sexuality was a non-issue. “You’ve dated men before, haven’t you?” Sylar finally managed to ask, trying to keep his eyes on himself in the mirror and what his hands were doing. He began to spread shaving cream over his features. “I mean, that’s what this is, right…? What we’re doing… or… is there a better word for it…”

            These were the last questions Mohinder had been expecting. He’d only been concerned about labeling what they had to the extent that he knew labeling it at all would be dangerous. Mohinder cleared his throat a little, pausing to rinse his hair. “I… I guess that’s what we’re… I mean, maybe the word I’d use is-… Er… Hm.” Mohinder decided to steer them back to the first question. “I wouldn’t say that I’ve ‘dated’ men before… I’ve had experience with them, I suppose.” Mohinder was glad to be divided by the curtain so that Sylar couldn’t see how uncomfortable the conversation made him. He couldn’t see the squeamish look on Mohinder’s face. “I went to an all-boys private school when I was in high school… My education wasn’t co-ed until I was in college. I wasn’t… irresponsible, I’d say… but I had my share of close male friends. Women are more difficult to deal with.”

            Sylar smiled at that, moving the razor over his face smoothly. A preference for men, maybe. “I see.” He heard Mohinder inhale to speak, but cut it off quickly before Mohinder could return the question and expose him. “What were you like in college? I imagine you were a serious student, not much for parties or mischief… but then again, you’re always surprising me.”

            “Surprising you?” 

            “Yeah.” Sylar tilted his head back to shave under his chin, careful not to nick the skin. “You’re not a pushover. You’re tough. You’ve got this… intensity. Nerve. It’s not every day someone duct-tapes a guy to a chair. –Or even thinks of that as an option. You’ve probably thrown some great punches in the past.” Sylar rinsed the razor and leaned down, splashing water on his face.

            He heard Mohinder chuckle. “I’ve had my share. Mostly over injured pride, really. Did you-” Mohinder recalled suddenly what Sylar had told him before. He had never gone to college; it was probably a touchy subject for such an intelligent person. He dropped it. “I don’t know that we’d have gotten along if we ever met in those days, though…” Mohinder said thoughtfully, turning off the shower and reaching around the back of the curtain to grab a towel.

            Sylar patted his face dry with a washcloth and arched an eyebrow at that. “Us? Why not? We get along fine now, don’t we?”

            Mohinder slid the curtains back, stepping out of the tub with his towel about his waist and his hair dripping. When he and Sylar looked to each other, Mohinder had to smile. Sylar was shaved and looking sharp again, even if it was standing there in his boxers. “We get along fine _now_ , but at that point I think our egos would have collided.”

            “Not if I were Gabriel Gray,” Sylar countered, stepping aside as Mohinder moved to the sink for his razor as well. “…But then again, you’d like me better as I am now anyway.”

            “Would I?” Mohinder asked, grabbing the shaving cream and spreading some across his fingers. He went to work lathering up his already damp face, feeling a bit grungy because of his stubble.

            “Don’t you?” Sylar moved in closer, standing behind Mohinder and watching him in the mirror. Their eyes locked as Mohinder coated his face in white foam, and Mohinder’s hands slowed down a little. Sylar rest his hands on Mohinder’s damp hips, over his towel. “You like this persona. I’ve seen it,” he stated, voice dropping lower, falling into the range of provocative tones he tended to use on the man when hunger ruled his words.

            Mohinder swallowed and lifted his razor, beginning to slowly pull it down, making trails of brown skin appear under white cream again. “This may come as a surprise to you, but it’s not a ‘persona.’ You’re the same, very real person, whether you’re fixing clocks or- …trying to seduce me.” He said this rather matter-of-factly, eyes flicking down towards the hands on his sides, pointing out what they both already knew. 

            Before the razor finished its trek down his skin, Mohinder felt his body being given a jerk. Sylar turned him by the hips so that they faced one another, pushing Mohinder back against the sink. When their eyes met, Mohinder’s had widened, surprised, but Sylar’s told of the smoothness and confidence he had lacked the night before. His look that could kill. He smirked, lifting one of his hands to take the razor from Mohinder’s fingers. “Regardless,” he murmured, “-hold still- it’s the part of my personality you enjoy more.” Sylar slowly touched the razor to Mohinder’s brown skin again, dragging it carefully down the side of his face to his jaw. They were close- only inches apart- and Sylar’s eyes began to slip into that deep concentration like that of when broken objects fell into his hands.

            Mohinder drew in a slow breath, staying as still as possible. He felt keenly how warm color rose into his face and cold water from his hair trickled down between his shoulder blades. “What… makes you say that?”

            Sylar’s lips, which had fallen into neutrality from focus, quirked at the corners again. “It turns you on,” he stated simply. This was his exercise of power. Sylar may not have had experience like Mohinder had, but he was good at being in control. He realized this, and he used it to his advantage. If his control could not be gained in murder, it could be gained in desire. And desire he could exercise again and again, with none of the severe consequences. As he methodically rinsed and returned the razor to Mohinder’s skin, he thought of all the many times in the future they’d get to play this game. The very thought aroused excitement in him.

            Mohinder remained motionless, cursing Sylar’s natural ability to make his blood rise. Cursing his talent for speaking words like he’d been Mohinder’s lover for ages and knew his most intimate secrets. Mohinder inhaled slowly, leaning his head back at the command of Sylar’s skilled hands, letting the feel of the sharp metal scraping slowly against his flesh take over instead of the need for words. Sylar stepped slightly closer within his space, and Mohinder felt their legs brush together against his towel. Mohinder berated his body for its easily encouraged reactions, feeling the weight of the silence between them. His hands gripped onto the sink behind him.

            Working diligently, Sylar tilted his own head to inspect and lifted his free hand to guide Mohinder’s jaw in different directions as he shaved him. There was an inherent eroticism to his actions, to the commanding, calculating manner in which he operated, one that Mohinder couldn’t tell if Sylar had planned or even been aware of when he began. His fingers were firm when they touched, but sensitive to the delicate curves of Mohinder’s features. Neither man spoke of the growing tension between their bodies or the sensation of their arousals that could be felt when Sylar’s leg placed itself more firmly between Mohinder’s damp towel and legs.

            “Almost done,” Sylar spoke in a whisper. He let his free hand drop down, touching Mohinder at the bend of his waist. The motion caused Mohinder to jump a little, and he gave a gasp when the razor nicked just barely into his flesh.

            “Ow-” Mohinder winced away.

            “Ah! I’m sorry, I didn’t- let me…” Sylar breathed in sharply and dropped the razor into the sink, reaching for his washcloth. He ran it under the stream of water and brought it to Mohinder’s face, patting away the excess cream carefully and peering close for the cut. He lifted his hand again, turning Mohinder’s jaw to get a look. The slice was small, but it began to bead a single fleck of dark red into a larger droplet that wavered, threatening to slide down Mohinder’s jaw.

            Mohinder swallowed. “It’s not, bad, is it…?” His eyes watched Sylar from their corners, his head still turned. The man seemed intently focused on that one spot, as though he were a cat deliberating what to do with a mouse. But there was nothing playful in his gaze.

            “No, it’s fine,” Sylar murmured. Brushing his thumb against Mohinder’s cheek, Sylar leaned in, placing his lips tenderly over the cut. The metallic taste of blood and the remnants of shaving cream stung his taste buds, but the feeling of the smooth skin of Mohinder’s jaw was a greater reward. Sylar listened as Mohinder took in a trembling breath, fingers tightening on the sink. Sylar smiled against him, running his tongue carefully over the cut. This wound was his to heal. Mohinder wouldn’t resist this. He wanted it. Sylar could tell; he could feel it against his leg.

            Moving his mouth slowly up Mohinder’s jaw, Sylar left those wet kisses in his wake, reveling in the sound of Mohinder’s lips parting for soft breaths. He replaced a hand on the man’s waist, feeling the warmth of skin now dry and fresh from the shower. He wouldn’t make it fast this time, Sylar decided. Not like their first encounters, or the blind gropings in the darkness of motel beds. He felt as if he could worship this body, and so he’d show Mohinder now what it meant to him. When wet lips touched Mohinder’s ear, Sylar finally heard his name breathed out.

            Mohinder was already hard, already fully aware of what was happening to his body. For Sylar to draw it out, make even the most ordinary of activities sensual… Mohinder couldn’t remember being treated that way before. His senses were already heightened by anticipation, and the meaning behind each action was now, like the night before, so much more intense than it had been. 

            He lifted his hand and pressed it against Sylar’s shoulder, feeling when the man’s fingertips drew up towards his collarbone. Sylar was leaning back now, just enough so that their lips could brush together, so that their hooded eyes could exchange glances at close range. Open mouths touched one another, but did not kiss. A curl, damp and cool, tickled Sylar’s forehead.

            Mohinder was the first to speak in a whisper. “The room, bed… I could move-”

            “No. …No,” Sylar replied quickly, fingertips pressing against the junction of Mohinder’s collarbones. He let them move down gradually, tracing an invisible line down the center of Mohinder’s chest. “I want to watch you, just like this,” Sylar murmured. Those callused, warm pads of his fingers lingered lower, until they were tracing down the fine black hairs of Mohinder’s navel, forced to halt at the coarse white towel. Sylar drew in a breath, aching for the body beneath as he’d never felt desire before.

            “It could be like this. _I could live for you, Mohinder_ ,” Sylar breathed out, savoring the way Mohinder’s grasp on his shoulders grew stronger and his heart sped up. Mohinder’s lips moved as though they longed to kiss him, but words came first.

            “Then you’ve found something to surrender to... not like power… Something that needs you… wants you… Someone… who can admit defeat to this too…” Mohinder voice sounded as though it trembled when he spoke, just barely. 

            Sylar felt an involuntary shudder pass through him. He wanted this man more than anything. “Only you could make surrender sound like that,” he whispered. “ _I’ve already surrendered_.” Sylar tilted his head and took Mohinder’s lips deeply, one arm wrapping tightly around his waist to hold the man steady. The enthusiasm with which his lips were met caused a pulse of arousal to spread further through his body. He wanted nothing more than to forget subtleties and romance- to simply take advantage of the thriving, needy being who shared this wantonness with him. 

            Though Sylar wanted his control, his power, even as his hand tugged free Mohinder’s towel, he felt the other man’s hands begin to move, drawing down his chest and around his sides, thumbs catching in the black fabric of Sylar’s boxers. The motion nearly startled him into breaking their kiss, but he felt Mohinder’s tongue brushing against his own, and instead an unexpected moan sounded in his throat. Mohinder’s initiative made his fingers tingle and his erection ache; to be wanted so blatantly was so very different and alluring for him.

            As those boxers dropped, Sylar kicked them away and let warm flesh meet, grasping Mohinder’s hips and pulling them closer. He wrapped his hands around Mohinder’s backside and gave him a jerk upwards as though to place him upon the sink, sliding one hand down Mohinder’s thigh, pulling it up to guide the man’s legs up and around his waist. Mohinder complied immediately, grasping Sylar’s shoulders for balance while strong hands and mind aided his lift.

            Once Mohinder’s weight relied on him, Sylar turned them quickly to the side, pushing Mohinder roughly against the wall, trapping him with his body. Soft and gentle he could do; he no longer wondered for how long. Now Mohinder was groaning and his body pleading, so Sylar focused on his ability to hold Mohinder’s weight suspended against that wall with his thoughts instead of worrying about anything else- romance or sweetness- in the world. 

            Mohinder’s arms stayed wrapped tight around Sylar’s neck and his legs about his waist, unsure of his stability in all this. But Sylar showed no such concerns. He broke their kisses so that his mouth could dip into the hollow of Mohinder’s throat, both hands falling between them. The first grasped Mohinder’s erection sharply, causing a tense moan to push past his lips; the second, Sylar snuck lower, playing the game he had the first time they slept together: icy fingertips all too ready to slip inside him.

            A hiss of Sylar’s name and a sudden tightening of that ring of muscle met the chilly fingers Sylar pushed inside, but Sylar merely drove them slowly farther, hand stroking Mohinder in time with his motions. Mohinder’s head tilted back against the wall, and the reckless pants and groans of the darker man stirred Sylar’s hunger deeply. This body reacted so beautifully, so naturally to his touch. It needed him as badly as he needed it. He let his fingertips begin to warm as he stretched the man with them, unable to draw out the moment any longer.

            Sylar brought his head back from Mohinder’s throat, facing that open mouth as he pulled his fingers free. “ _Mohinder…this is…_ ” Sylar let his hands move away, grasping Mohinder’s hips as he pressed up against him, prepared to claim the man once more.

            “ _Everything,_ ” Mohinder breathed back, bringing their lips together fiercely with fingertips catching black hair to pull Sylar in. 

            Sylar resisted the urge to groan until he pushed inside, enveloped in the burn of tight flesh. Slow, subtle, these were not things able to be accomplished now. Drinking in the moans from Mohinder’s lips into his mouth, Sylar drove into the man deeply, bodies firmly together, firmly against the wall. The muscles of Mohinder’s legs were gripping him almost as boldly, ankles digging into his lower back. This was Sylar’s invitation to rhythm.

            Holding onto Mohinder’s hips possessively, Sylar began to thrust, struggling to keep concentration enough to hold Mohinder up as he did. He moved swiftly, breaking their kisses to hear Mohinder’s breath, trying to match the motion of his own movements to its desperation. Each time Mohinder’s hands began to clutch at his back again, began to dig into his skin, Sylar could only force himself deeper, harder, thinking of nothing at all but this moment. Of how badly they needed this from each other.

            Gasping breaths, hitched moans, the feeling of slick sweat forming over heated flesh; it was perfect. Sensual and spiritual and perfect. Mohinder’s slender body wrapped around him, on his face and in his desire, no regret. Every moment stretched on forever for Sylar. Mohinder was rocking his hips, fingers drawing from Sylar’s back up into his hair and down again as he moved his own body to their tempo, absorbed in it. A conscious, glorious submission. 

            Sylar listened, intoxicated by the connection. It made him want to make it better, so incredible it was painful. He spared nothing, hips slamming ruthlessly to the ends they starved for, pushing their bodies to every last limit. Sylar heard the tightening of muscles before he felt it; he heard the sudden bolt of Mohinder’s heart into more uncontrollably erratic rhythms. 

            It was the sound of him: A heart without pattern, the current of blood crashing through the body, lungs that could scarcely take another breath. The sound of Mohinder’s surrender brought Sylar to the point that he couldn’t bear such exhilaration. He bowed his head and gasped raggedly, hips pounding relentlessly into Mohinder’s body. When Sylar came, his orgasm felt more wrenching and intense than any before it, buried in the body he craved to call ‘home.’

            Mohinder followed almost immediately, a cry he struggled to stifle sounding anyway, his arms clinging for dear life to the man who had, before these weeks, brought him nothing but death. Color and sound and scent flooded his senses, and every last one spoke to him of Sylar. Mohinder panted heavily, waiting for the aftershocks of his orgasm to quiet, for the last sticky remnants to pass between them. Tilting his head back against the wall behind him again, Mohinder closed his eyes, basking in the heat they radiated.

            Sylar was kissing his throat, then, pressing his lips to salty flesh as he had not the first time. These kisses were his now; it was not weakness, it was acceptance. Surrender. Sylar reached up and tilted Mohinder’s face down towards him, taking his lips in a slow, languid kiss. This was it. This was everything.

            “Mohinder, I’m about to say something dangerous,” Sylar began, voice faint and uneven. He heard Mohinder’s scanty breath catch for a moment, and smiled as he leaned in carefully, lips brushing ticklishly against the soft skin of Mohinder’s ear. 

            “… _I think I’m happy_ ,” he whispered. A wider smile broke, and Sylar tilted his head back to bequeath once more a kiss on Mohinder’s lips. 

            Mohinder’s face began as nothing short of bewilderment, but soon his lips curved upwards as well. “ _I could live for you,_ ” –was the only reply he gave.

            They sat in a small diner, in a window seat, having a discussion on an unknown topic. 

            White teeth and a warm, bright smile could be seen even from across the highway through binoculars. Mohinder was laughing; something was funny, and the smirking look of amusement and casual shrug of Sylar’s shoulders was telling of just whom had made whatever entertaining comment that had been passed between them.

            “I could take him out from here. It would not be hard,” –came the deep voice.

            “No. Suresh could be forming a set up for us. He could be bringing him in on purpose. Don’t do anything yet. It will be on my order, do you hear?”

            “With all due respect, you are no longer my boss, Mr. Bennet. We are partners,” the Haitian replied, a faint tone of aggravation in his usually calm voice. He adjusted the phone at his ear, still peering through the eyepieces. “It does not look as if he is planning for our side. They look fairly close.”

            Bennet frowned, turning around to watch the gas line at the register die down. He dug into his pocket for his wallet. “No. Suresh isn’t stupid. Willful, a bit naive, maybe, but he doesn’t have any reason to be siding with Sylar. We’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. With you here, it won’t be a problem. Keep an eye on them. I’m only an hour out of town. I’ll be there soon.”

            The Haitian closed his phone and narrowed his eyes a little. There was a brief touch he could see; the pass of Mohinder’s fingertips over Sylar’s hand to cover it, and the affectionate smiles that spread across each of their faces. This, he knew, was infinitely more complicated than Bennet could imagine.

   
  
  



End file.
